


make me, unmake me

by moonweaver



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Deepthroating, Demon Sex, Doggy Style, Happy Halloween!, M/M, Riding, Salaryman Akaashi, catch me out here dying as i use google incognito, incubus Tsukishima
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonweaver/pseuds/moonweaver
Summary: “Really, Akaashi-san?” Tsukishima murmured against his lips. “Is that all?”And they weren’t kissing, but Akaashi tasted it, oh, hetastedit, dark smoky sweetness sliding down his tongue like sin, making his blood thunder and knees go weak.More. More.___Nothing could have prepared Akaashi for the unreality of Tsukishima Kei.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87





	make me, unmake me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a companion piece to sabs' demon Tsukishima/salaryman Akaashi art, which you can see [here](https://twitter.com/sakrgu/status/1322712461456240640/) in all its glory. Happy Halloween u thirsty mofos
> 
> ((Dedicated to [sabs](https://twitter.com/sakrgu), [alice](https://twitter.com/angryeggo), [oli](https://twitter.com/oscuuuro) hehe because without their chaotic brainstorming, the concept would've never existed...))

“Drinks,” Sugawara said, leaning against the edge of Akaashi’s desk. “This evening. We’re set to celebrate another win.”

“Oh?” Akaashi lowered his laptop lid, looking up at his coworker. “Ah. Let me guess. The proposal was approved?”

"Yep, just got the news! We steamrolled them on Tuesday, after all," Sugawara said cheerfully. "They can't argue with a mountain of reports all pointing toward the same evidence."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help this time," Akaashi said. He'd been caught up organising another project during Sugawara's appeal for increased funding for their department, and hadn't been able to contribute much.

"No, it's totally fine! Besides, we had Tsukishima on our side."

"Tsukishima?" Akaashi echoed, the name familiar on his tongue, because it was a name he knew well. The newest addition to their workplace, who had only been there two months and whose desk was on a different row to Akaashi’s—but he’d noticed him from the start, anyway. 

"Mm hm. He put together a lot of those reports. It gave us a really solid foundation to start from. Speaking of him, though…" Sugawara straightened, waving his hand in a beckoning gesture.

"Sugawara-san. Akaashi-san."

That quiet voice sent a thrill through Akaashi's stomach. He swivelled his chair to face the other direction, where Tsukishima Kei was walking over to them, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand. The other was by his side, holding a slim notebook bound in expensive-looking material. Leather, perhaps. His glasses sat perfectly balanced on the bridge of his nose.

"Thank you again for all that research you did, Tsukishima-kun. I know you had to do some overtime. We couldn't have done it without you." Sugawara patted him on the shoulder, mindful of the hot drink.

"It was… You're welcome, Sugawara-san." Tsukishima dipped his head respectfully. If he let his blonde hair grow any longer, it would be falling into his eyes, Akaashi thought.

“I was just talking to Akaashi about this, but we’re organising some after-work drinks today. You’ll come?” Sugawara smiled, big and genuine. It was hard to say no to Sugawara when he pinned you with that beam, and Akaashi suspected the other man was dialling it up a few notches to convince Tsukishima, who had rarely attended any gatherings in the few months he’d worked with them.

Tsukishima glanced at Akaashi. “Everyone’s going?” he asked.

“Just our team, plus this honorary member,” Sugawara said, indicating Akaashi. “So it won’t be very many people.”

“Ah.” Tsukishima’s clear golden eyes were unreadable as they returned to Akaashi. His thumb tapped soundlessly on his notebook, slow, as if counting the seconds. Once. Twice. A third time. “I’ll go.”

Sugawara’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Nice!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, making his way around Tsukishima. “I’ll go tell the others. We’ll probably be going somewhere close to the station!”

He bustled away, humming under his breath. Quiet was left in his wake, and Tsukishima, who was still thoughtfully regarding Akaashi. For someone so reserved, he had a curiously intense gaze.

(That had been the third thing Akaashi noticed about him when they first met.)

“You agreed quite quickly to that,” Akaashi pointed out. “Have you become more comfortable with the others?”

Tsukishima cracked a small smile, a sliver of light that touched more on his eyes than his mouth. “Maybe. But you’re the one I know best here.”

Oh. That sent a little thrill of happiness through Akaashi’s stomach—as well as a spark of a different kind, because Tsukishima looked especially good when he smiled. Even when it was just a hint of one, it still made it that bit more difficult for Akaashi to swallow. 

The smile widened a touch, on the cusp of something sharp.

“Good work with the reports,” Akaashi said, to distract himself. 

“I just did the necessary research.” Tsukishima shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, tucking the smile away behind a ceramic rim. “It wasn’t anything special.”

“Still, it helped, yes? I would know.” Akaashi thought back to the couple of times they’d worked on the same projects, where Tsukishima had always managed to find the most pertinent information to their needs, shoring up any of the weak points in their presentations. He was almost frighteningly efficient.

“...Then thank you, Akaashi-san.”

Akaashi was having to crane his neck a little to look up at Tsukishima; he was very tall, perhaps the tallest man in their office—which had been the second thing Akaashi had noticed about him. Suddenly he wasn’t sure if he should be sitting or standing.

Tsukishima saved him from having to make a decision by moving past, apparently heading toward his own desk on the other side of the rows. Akaashi disliked how they were sat so far away from each other.

“Tsukishima-kun," he said without meaning to. When Tsukishima stopped to look at him, he cleared his throat, trying to come up with something to say. “I’m looking forward to tonight.”

The white light of the office tended to wash everything out, leeching the colours out of clothes and making skin of all shades turn wan. It never seemed to affect Tsukishima the same way it did everyone else, stopping short of highlighting the spiderweb of blue-green veins under his skin, unable to touch the honey colouring of his gently curling hair. Under its merciless glare, Tsukishima remained pale, untarnished gold.

“Likewise,” Tsukishima said, that smile cutting his lips again in one breath and gone the next. His thumb moved in small circles over the binding of his notebook.

The image of that replayed in Akaashi’s mind long after Tsukishima had left. Because he knew the touch of that thumb; he knew what those fingers felt like when they were clasped around his wrist. 

He and Tsukishima had collided before they’d met. Two months ago, Akaashi had been walking quickly down the hallway, caught in a haze of distracted stress as he flipped through some documents; Tsukishima had been accompanying Sugawara on a tour of the workplace. They’d rounded the corridor corner at the same time and crashed into each other, sending half of Akaashi’s paper stack tumbling to the floor. He himself stumbled, off-balance.

Then there was someone holding him, and a voice was apologising. But Akaashi had only been able to look at the pale hand on his arm, stare at the bump of knuckles and the valleys in between them, at the slender fingers that lay soft and cool against his skin.

And that had been the first thing Akaashi noticed about Tsukishima Kei.

* * *

The days had blurred together during mid-November as late autumn brought dark mornings and fleeting days. Akaashi would walk to and from work under a sky meant for 9pm, light pollution blacking out the stars when the sky wasn’t heavy with clouds. Daytime could hardly be called such as it grew gloomy and cold, freezing the hours, days, weeks together. 

Running into Tsukishima just after the New Year’s holiday cracked the monotony down the middle, then time picked right back up again from the fissure, clear and cold as the winter air. It shocked Akaashi out of the numbing cycle of work-sleep-work; his subconscious was stirred into marking his days into sunrise, Tsukishima, sunset. When he walked home he looked up at the moon, hanging tiny and yellow-white in the dark sky.

Meeting him had not only kick-started Akaashi’s mind—Akaashi was perfectly willing to admit to himself he’d developed what could be called a crush on his colleague. Because what else could he call that feeling he got when he found himself searching for and then lingering on Tsukishima, even if he was full across the room? What else could he call the swoop in his stomach when he heard Tsukishima's rare laugh, never more than a quiet snicker? Or the itch under his palms to touch the silk of his skin again, to see if it was the same as he remembered?

It was that latter urge in particular that really got to him, making him question if the heat low in his belly was purely from a _crush_. Akaashi hadn’t dwelled on someone like this in quite a while, and in those past times he had, he couldn’t recall if it had invaded his mind to this extent.

Often his fascination with Tsukishima lay quiet—present, but quiet—gently brushing against his conscious thought. But sometimes it blazed up out of nowhere, especially when they were in close proximity. If Tsukishima stood just that step too close to Akaashi, his thoughts would inevitably twist to the point where he was unable to think of anything but how Tsukishima would feel under his hands.

He fought to keep those errant impulses to himself, locking them behind a composed mask and hoping the key wouldn’t slip from his fingers. And Akaashi was good at that: good at keeping a straight face, maintaining a professional air, offering guidance to Tsukishima like he would for any junior coworker. He didn’t leave any suggestion his thoughts had strayed far beyond what was appropriate.

Yes, Akaashi took pride in being subtle. He made it so nobody noticed his greedy, stolen glances, least of all Tsukishima himself.

* * *

Sugawara and the others had chosen an izakaya near the station, as promised. It was a popular chain, evidenced by the fact it was crowded when they made their way inside at half-past seven, full of salarymen and women winding down after the work week. The scents of grilling meat, alcohol, and cigarette smoke permeated the air.

Luckily, there seemed to be a group table available at the back. Akaashi and Tsukishima took up the rear of the group as they filed one-by-one through the narrow walkway. Tsukishima seemed faintly put off by the atmosphere of the place, but followed Akaashi closely nonetheless. It made Akaashi feel responsible for him—Tsukishima _was_ his junior, after all. 

The izakaya tables were the kinds that were sunk into the floor and separated into small rooms by wooden partitions. They had to kick off their shoes before they stepped onto the slightly raised platform, placing them in the small lockers lined up alongside the rows. Once that was done they crammed themselves down along onto the low benches, four on each side; Akaashi found himself between the wall and Tsukishima, his back to the entrance. 

Sugawara beckoned the waiter, placing an order that Akaashi didn’t hear, too busy quelling the warmth that spiked through him when Tsukishima’s thigh pushed up against his. When the man asked each of them in turn if they wanted to order, he automatically requested a cheap, generic beer.

“Please don’t tell me that’s your drink of choice,” Tsukishima said in an undertone as the waiter left. At the other end of the table, Konoha burst into raucous laughter at something Sugawara said.

“Maybe I’m just watching my wallet,” Akaashi deflected. “What did you order?”

“Kahlua and milk.” Tsukishima tapped a spot on the drink menu.

Akaashi studied the picture, which looked like a cold brew doused in cream. “Hm. Interesting. I’ve never had that before.”

“Do you like coffee?”

“Very much.”

“Then it’s worth a try.”

The finality with which he spoke made Akaashi want to enjoy his beer to prove that his choice was just fine, but when the waiter returned with a tray and placed a pint glass in front of him, he instinctively sensed he’d made a mistake. Sure enough, when their group toasted one another and gulped down their drinks, Akaashi found the cheap beer was sour and thin on his tongue. He made a face, pushing the glass away from him.

“How’s that budgeting working out?” Tsukishima asked.

“...Swimmingly,” Akaashi said, giving him a sideward glance.

Tsukishima was being rather...free with his words tonight, his remarks hovering between teasing and snarky, a bit too familiar for an exchange between two people who were simply colleagues. Or was Akaashi just reading too much into it? He didn’t dislike the barbs, but they did make his line of thought catch and go taut like snared fishing wire.

Maybe Tsukishima was more comfortable here because they were out of a professional setting. Hints of a side of him kept separate from his work life slipping through. Akaashi licked his suddenly dry lips, unwilling to drink more of the unpleasant beer, thinking that if this was Tsukishima starting to become comfortable, what else lay beneath the surface?

Beside Tsukishima, Inuoka began to energetically dole out sake, splashing it onto the table. A cup teetered as he knocked into it; Tsukishima’s hand flashed out lightning-fast, steadying it before it tipped. Inuoka gave an energetic apology, sake running down the lip of the jug.

“Sorry, would you have preferred being next to the wall?” Akaashi asked Tsukishima.

“I won’t lie and say _no_ ,” Tsukishima commented, wiping his hand with a napkin. “But you’re my senpai, aren’t you?”

_And so you have the right to pick your seat first_ , was the unspoken addendum, but the honorific _senpai_ flickered into Akaashi’s ear and stuck there. As respectful as Tsukishima was to his superiors, his use of the word was still somehow unexpected. Perhaps Akaashi felt it was unusual because Tsukishima had always been more at ease around him—and as he’d said, he knew Akaashi best. So to hear him utter a term that put him in an obviously subordinate position was...curious.

Curious.

A drop of condensation rolled down Akaashi’s glass. He caught it before it connected with the table, smearing the droplet across his fingertips. “I’m going to order something else,” he murmured, frowning at the pale amber liquid.

Tsukishima took a sip of his kahlua and milk and lowered his glass halfway, swirling it gently. Creamy white bled into deep brown. Akaashi looked at it and then at him; his lips were shiny from the drink. 

“Suppose I couldn’t try yours?”

Tsukishima raised an eyebrow, but set the glass down by Akaashi’s hand. “Here. But not too much, please.”

He’d only been half-joking when he asked. Maybe he should work on actually expressing that, Akaashi thought, picking up the kahlua. Konoha had told him several times nobody understood his humour because his delivery was too deadpan.

But, hell, it got him to this point, so what was the problem in it? Akaashi lifted the glass to his lips, at the spot where Tsukishima had drank from. The aroma of coffee soaked through him; he closed his eyes briefly, tasting the sweetness of the liqueur, mellowed by milk. The only evidence it was alcoholic was the pleasant burn it left in the back of his throat after he’d swallowed.

Tsukishima was looking at him when he opened his eyes again, regarding him through his lashes. The burn travelled from Akaashi’s throat to his cheeks. He passed the drink back, collecting his words. “Thank you. It’s good.”

Tsukishima traced the rim of the glass thoughtfully. “It is, isn’t it?”

Akaashi felt a pressure around his ankle, like a cord had wrapped around it. He rubbed it with a socked foot, frowning; the sensation vanished, but he succeeded in bumping his foot against Tsukishima’s.

“Sorry,” Tsukishima said. But when Akaashi shifted his feet, suddenly very aware of how they were placed on the ground, he found Tsukishima hadn’t moved—he accidentally brushed up beside him again, and quickly inclined his head in apology.

Only the memory of the sourness of the beer stopped Akaashi from downing it. He planted his feet firmly near the wall, ignoring the discomfort his awkward posture brought him, and pretended not to notice how Tsukishima was looking at him sidelong, his fingertip still resting on the rim of his glass. There was something...inquisitive, in the weight of his gaze. Expectant. Waiting.

With nothing left to do with his hands, Akaashi knotted his fingers together, trying to pay attention to whatever Kinnoshita and Kiyoko were talking about across the table from them. They noticed him listening, and oriented their bodies to include him in the conversation. But their words were washing over his ears; he couldn’t retain any of it. All that he was aware of was the man beside him, of the _waiting_ , how with every passing second he was unravelling.

Akaashi sucked in a sharp breath, and took a gulp of his beer.

As the acrid liquid washed down his throat he relaxed his legs, letting them fall back where they had been, perhaps a little wider. The line of his and Tsukishima’s thighs melded together. Tsukishima did not pull away.

Uncharted territory. Expectancy. Akaashi thought of blonde hair curling against the back of a shirt collar, of skin like cool silk. Of fingers tapping on a notebook, _one, two, three_.

Yukie, who was sitting on Sugawara’s other side, clapped her hands eagerly, reeling Akaashi’s attention back to his surroundings. The food that Sugawara had ordered arrived, arranged before them on the table by two staff members. One more woman followed them, more sake bottles and cups arranged on her circular tray. Akaashi tapped the first waitress on the shoulder as she bent to set down a platter of yakitori, quietly asking for a kahlua and milk.

“A round on me!” Sugawara called out. “And you get extra, Tsukishima!”

“Favouritism!” someone accused.

“Eh, but I don’t really drink sake,” Tsukishima murmured, his leg a firm, solid weight against Akaashi’s own. 

The sake was poured, the cups distributed. By the way Yukie was attacking the yakitori with gusto, Akaashi supposed it was good. He was too distracted to savour the food or drink, eating somewhat mechanically, thrumming, nervous energy radiating outward from where he was touching Tsukishima and crawling up the lining of his stomach. He truly hadn’t expected anything like this to happen, but it had, and it was.

_So what are you going to do about it_ , his mind whispered.

He could pull his feet back, pretend like nothing happened. Take another swallow of that disgusting beer and wash the promise ghosting across his skin away.

Or he could take another step forward. Lift another layer. _What makes you tick?_

He ran his toe over the bridge of Tsukishima’s foot, wondering.

The cord-like pressure fluttered around his ankle again, higher and tighter, vanishing as soon as he noticed it. Tsukishima had stiffened almost imperceptibly, but still nodded along to whatever Kinnoshita was telling him. Akaashi ate another piece of yakitori, meat juices bursting over his tongue, and for a brief moment the flavours were bright and vivid and immediate.

Kinnoshita turned to Akaashi. “How have you been doing with Takeda’s project?”

“I,” Akaashi began, then dropped his chopsticks as Tsukishima’s toe nudged under the bridge of his foot. One fell off the table, lodging itself down the narrow gap between bench and wall.

“Oh— Here, Akaashi-san.” Kiyoko offered him a clean pair from the box on the table. Akaashi nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice to work. Little, languid ovals were being grazed on his sole, sending erratic pulses straight between his legs.

“It’s almost finished,” Akaashi said to Kinnoshita, pulling the words out like splinters. How juvenile, that he was being so affected by such a minor touch—except the physical reaction it was eliciting was not minor at all. “Just some documents to be signed, then faxed.”

Tsukishima’s touch retreated, brushed against his Achilles tendon, pulled back once more. _Follow_. 

Expectant. Waiting.

“Ugh, faxing.” Kinnoshita turned to Kiyoko with a sigh. “Why is email such a terrifying concept to anyone over thirty-five?”

Akaashi followed.

Despite saying he didn’t drink sake, Tsukishima still finished all of his as well as Sugawara’s promised extras, and offered the others refills when they ran low, as befitted the person with the most junior position in the group. Akaashi slowly sipped at his cup, soon placing it down in favour of the kahlua drink the waitress brought him (Tsukishima smirked a little at that). He felt his cheeks colour further as he progressed through the alcohol, but his head was still clear enough—he was the type whose imbibing showed up on his face well before it started muddling his mind.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t immune to its effects. As the evening wore on Akaashi felt his limbs loosen, his blood burning pleasantly in his veins. Well, it would have been pleasant, but for the fact all his awareness was magnetised to the points of contact between him and Tsukishima. Their feet were well and truly tangled together, bodies pressed close from hip to knee. The fire in his face and groin were approaching the peak of being unbearable, and it was only the fact they were surrounded by people that Akaashi didn’t turn to Tsukishima and plant a hand right in the middle of his chest.

So Akaashi dipped his hand under the table while their neighbours were distracted, hesitated for half a second, then smoothed his fingers up the side of Tsukishima’s leg. Immediately Tsukishima was holding him tightly, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm.

Akaashi risked a glance at him to see if he’d overstepped somehow, but Tsukishima’s eyes were dark, glinting, a flush on his ears. Slowly he released him, allowing Akaashi to touch his leg, clothed by dark dress pants; he felt the muscle jump under his fingers. The coils of pressure reappeared, transitory, flickering over his calves and away. Muscle spasms, Akaashi thought.

When Inuoka asked him a question around Tsukishima’s shoulder, he pulled back, reaching to cradle the half-full sake cup. When he’d answered to his coworker’s satisfaction he lifted the cup to his mouth, inhaling the delicate floral scent that still danced on the sake’s surface even though it had cooled.

Tsukishima’s hand curled around Akaashi’s inner thigh; Akaashi’s breath hitched, pulse hammered. The smell of smoke and sugar flooded his nostrils; an ashy, harsh sweetness that bloomed in the back of his throat. Embers glowing red in the banks of a woodfire. Caramel on the edge of being burned.

In a heartbeat the scent disappeared, leaving him with nothing but tobacco and flower petals. Akaashi put his sake down, untouched, feeling lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.

He was hot and tight between his legs. His lungs were thick with dreamlike memory.

Akaashi bit down on his lower lip, blood rushing in his ears. Unravelling, unravelling, Tsukishima’s hand the one thing holding his threads together. He couldn’t sit here a moment longer. 

He gestured to Sugawara; once he had his attention, he leaned forward slightly. “I’m… Could you please excuse me a bit early?”

“Oh, of course.” Sugawara’s brow furrowed in concern. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just queasy,” Akaashi lied. 

“Will you be fine on the commute—oh, yeah! You live pretty close, don’t you.”

Akaashi nodded. “Walking distance.” He pulled out his wallet and passed over some money. “That should cover my share—I don’t mind if it’s too much.”

“Take care, Akaashi,” Sugawara said, making the generic farewell into one with genuine feeling. “Thanks for coming out.”

“Thank you for the invitation.”

A hand wrapped around Akaashi’s wrist as he stood up from the table, half-bent to hide any evidence of his arousal. Tsukishima had caught onto him, tugging him closer before he straightened fully. “I’ll walk you home, Akaashi-san,” he offered in an undertone.

“That would be appreciated,” Akaashi said politely, as if his mind hadn’t been clamouring for Tsukishima to ask just that. Fingers, pressing the tendons of his wrist. Dream-memory clinging behind his teeth, under his tongue. Tsukishima’s eyes, dark liquid amber and his pupils—

— _what?_ —

Tsukishima rose, climbing neatly up onto the raised platform and collecting their bags and Akaashi’s scarf. Akaashi was left to follow him unsteadily, still disoriented by what he’d—seen. Had he? Those... _eyes_.

They made their farewells—“what a good kouhai,” Konoha drawled teasingly at Tsukishima, who didn’t deign him with a response—and shrugged on their coats before heading out into the clear winter night. The chill drove through Akaashi’s tangled haze of heat and desire, shocking clarity into his system. It had been a trick of light, there in the dim smoky izakaya, nothing more. Akaashi inhaled, inviting the frozen air to bite into him and expel the odd sensation burrowed in his chest.

But if anything, it only served to make him ten times more aware of the way his body was tingling, oversensitive, sweat pricking the back of his neck. Tsukishima walked beside him quietly, but Akaashi sensed the intent balled up within him, almost... _tangible_ … A shudder passed through him. He could still feel the ghost of Tsukishima’s touch creeping up his leg, squeezing, reaching. If the main road they were on wasn’t so crowded…

He exhaled clouds. _Smoke_. The sweetness of kahlua liqueur on his breath. _Sugar_.

“How far away do you live?” Tsukishima asked.

“Just a ten minute walk.”

_Do you want to come inside_? he sounded out in his head. Pictured unlocking his apartment door, Tsukishima following him through the entryway. Pictured pushing him against the wall. Or being pushed against the wall. _Do you want to come inside?_

Tsukishima made a pleased hum. “Not too far, then. Good.”

A shiver crawled up Akaashi’s spine. If he’d had any uncertainties about Tsukishima’s intentions, they wavered at that tone of his voice. 

They walked for a time along the busy main road, close together to avoid the late night stream of people. As soon as they turned down the side road, the amount of people dotting the pathways abruptly lessened. The quiet grew as they went further into the residential neighbourhood, manifesting into the same _waiting_ as before, but headier and more excruciating.

Again, approaching that peak of unbearability. Akaashi clenched his hands tight in his pockets. Every now and then he thought he caught a faint suggestion of ash-bitter-sweet and it would thrill through him, adding to the bundle of nerves and arousal that still knotted tight within him despite the cold air laying blades across his cheeks.

They rounded the corner that led to Akaashi’s street, his apartment building lying halfway down the block. The road was devoid of people, Akaashi found as they neared his place. The windows of the nearby buildings had curtains drawn across. The world had taken its eyes off them.

“Tsukishima-kun,” Akaashi said, flinching at the roughness in his voice. He hadn’t thought he’d sound like _that_.

He would have been embarrassed, had Tsukishima not stopped and turned to face him directly, and— how did he look like that in wintry moonlight, how could Akaashi see him so clearly in all this shadow? Even though it was bitterly cold, he’d forgone a scarf, and the lines of his pale, elegant neck glowed luminous along with the rest of his skin. It couldn’t be just the streetlamps and the moon doing that. It was strange. _He_ was so strange, and so _beautiful_.

Akaashi reached out to him, hardly consciously aware of his movements. Tsukishima’s cheek fit in his palm like it belonged there, like it was made to be there. Smooth and cool, exactly how he’d imagined—and Akaashi stopped thinking about that, because he had reached up to kiss Tsukishima and all he now felt was his mouth.

The first press of lips was dry, cold. But even then it was dizzyingly soft, drawing Akaashi back to kiss him again, harder. Their breath mingled damply between them, warm on Akaashi’s face; he smelled hints of kahlua. Tsukishima’s lips parted further, inviting him in—his teeth were _sharp_ against Akaashi’s tongue, sending a spike of alarm through him that twisted so deliciously into his adrenaline he simply didn’t care. 

He had to draw back for air eventually, but Tsukishima’s hand was firm at the back of his neck, stopping him from retreating any further. Akaashi flicked a glance up at him, his chest constricting at how Tsukishima’s eyes were still half-lidded, looking not at him but _through_ him. _Expectant_.

“Really, Akaashi-san?” Tsukishima murmured against his lips. “Is that all?”

And they weren’t kissing, but Akaashi tasted it, oh, he _tasted_ it, dark smoky sweetness sliding down his tongue like sin, making his blood thunder and knees go weak. _More. More._

He fisted his hands into Tsukishima’s collar and yanked him close, kissing him vicious and deep. Hands slid through his hair, nails roughly scraping his scalp; Tsukishima’s mouth acquiesced to his demands and reshaped them into his own. Akaashi felt him smirk.

Flames licked up his insides in one great roaring rush; he was hot all over and there were too many layers between them. Akaashi wanted to tear off his coat right there in the street and see Tsukishima’s follow it, wrench that dark blue tie loose and jerk open his collar—Tsukishima always had his business shirts buttoned all the way up—run his fingers and mouth and teeth over what expanse of skin was hidden underneath.

Some part of him was caught off-guard by the blind intensity of his urges, but his mind had clouded all over again and he— didn’t— _care_. The way Tsukishima was holding him was short-circuiting his brain, each scratch of his nails bordering on painful. His impossible smell filled Akaashi’s lungs—impossible yet achingly, terrifyingly real.

“Come inside,” Akaashi gasped out, breaking the kiss.

Tsukishima’s hands froze where they had been roaming greedily through his hair, then he smirked, again, and now that Akaashi was actually seeing it it turned him on even more. It wasn’t a cocksure grin like the ones Konoha liked to throw around, but a small, smug quirk of his lips.

“Alright,” he said, eyes glittering. “I much prefer the indoors.”

Akaashi hardly recalled how he made it to his apartment door—well, he did live on the ground floor, but the getting there was lost on him. He fumbled for his key, missed the lock twice, neck flushing with embarrassment.

Tsukishima touched the small of his back; it felt as hot as a brand despite the layers of clothing. Akaashi finally managed to open the door and paused for a split second, his stomach lurching. He was suddenly filled with absolute certainty that stepping into his apartment would be akin to stepping off a cliff.

He turned around and caught Tsukishima's hand in his, then drew them both inside.

Once they were over the threshold, it was like the outside world sunk into the mere memory of being. The only things Akaashi could hear was their breathing, and his heartbeat. His rapid, pattering heartbeat. Even when he flicked on the dim overhead light, everything felt so far away.

And then overwhelmingly close. Tsukishima’s hand in his. Flashes of pressure on his legs and arms, like the faint push of exploratory fingers. Creeping further up, further in, winding around his throat—Tsukishima was kissing him again, tongue and teeth, shoving him against the wall. Akaashi gasped, feeling his bag slip off his shoulder, scrambling to shove Tsukishima’s coat off. He had taken off his glasses at some point, leaving Akaashi able to push his fingers into the soft hair at his temples.

Their shoes were kicked off, outerwear and satchels tossed somewhere near their feet. Akaashi couldn’t decide what to do with his hands, going from desperately clinging to Tsukishima’s shoulders to yanking his tie and collar loose, buttons popping off the fabric. Tsukishima was making short work of Akaashi’s clothing too, but in a much more precise fashion, like someone unwrapping a parcel and smoothing out the paper so it did not tear. Scarf, unwound from his neck. Tie, loosened; shirt, unbuttoned halfway. Akaashi groaned when Tsukishima stroked his palm over his chest, grazing over a nipple. Maddening.

A flash of pain, and the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. He jerked back with a grunt of surprise, touching a finger to his lips. It came away with a smear of red and Tsukishima shuddered, then inhaled deeply; slow, focused. Akaashi blinked—the shadows had seemed to lengthen, and instead of being cast _away_ from their forms it was like they were being drawn _to_ them, crawling, stretching. He looked back up—

Tsukishima’s pupils had become a vertical slash through the iris, which were burning such a deep dark gold they looked molten. Shock bolted through Akaashi. He couldn't breathe. 

_His...eyes._

The entry lamp flickered off, plunging them into darkness.

“From the beginning,” Tsukishima said, his low, even voice seeming to come from the thick shadows all around them. It curled into Akaashi’s ears, sinking into him like feathers made of stone. “I knew you were looking.”

Akaashi’s breath was shaky. He did not stop Tsukishima from opening his shirt all the way, exposing him from neck to waist to the cold; cold that quickly was overcome by the impossible heat simmering below his skin. His sight had yet to adjust to the lack of light, compounding his sense of touch tenfold. Maybe that was why he felt like he was going to explode. 

The afterimage of those inhuman eyes were fixed into his mind.

“I— I thought nobody noticed.” The confession escaped him in a rush.

At any other time he might have been ashamed of his past self’s ego, but Tsukishima was mouthing at his jaw and he was forgetting how to think. Teeth nipped just below his ear, too sharp to be normal. Fingernails trailed down Akaashi’s stomach and he jolted, the muscles there twitching involuntarily.

“I could taste it from across the room, _Keiji_ ,” Tsukishima whispered. Akaashi didn’t know when his pants had been unbuttoned and unzipped, but they were now being pushed over his hips, past his knees, pooling at his ankles. The air was especially chill against his erection, making him realise he was decidedly damp. “Taste the way you looked at me. You look at me so much. Think I _didn’t notice_?” One finger slipped beneath the waistband of his underwear, followed by another. Those fingernails scraped ever so lightly at his base; a whimper escaped Akaashi’s lips. “ _I could smell you getting hard_ ,” Tsukishima said roughly, then he had Akaashi completely in his hand.

Akaashi’s knees almost buckled. It was only thanks to the wall he was able to remain upright, digging his fingertips into its surface. _Keiji_ , his name echoed almost as unfamiliar as a foreign word, _Keiji_ , shaped by Tsukishima’s throat and lips and tongue. He kept on circling back to those slitted pupils focused on him, intent and greedy; if sight alone could devour, there’d be nothing left of him to speak of.

“What—” He broke off in a strangled moan as Tsukishima slid his hand from head to base with a precise, fluid motion, sending starbursts blooming behind his eyelids—and straight into his blood, because what else could explain the wild energy that was howling through him?

Tsukishima pumped him again, breath harsh in his ear, and Akaashi definitely was _not_ imagining that like pressure coiling up around his leg from knee to thigh, like a thin rope being tied around his limb. He threw his head back against the wall, clutching Tsukishima’s shoulders and jerking into his hand with frantic, stuttery movements. Like an animal. “ _Ah_ — Tsu— Tsukishima, _what…_ ”

_What are you?_

“Hm.”

Akaashi blinked the tears out of his eyes, finding his vision had adjusted more to the dark. He could just make out Tsukishima’s blonde waves of hair, pick out the lines of his pale skin against the shifting shadow. Because the shadows were— shifting, and at this point Akaashi wasn’t sure if he had faith in _tricks of light_.

Tsukishima’s hand left him and he let out a small sound of protest, which was immediately cut off when Tsukishima started kissing roughly down his neck, his collarbone; Akaashi felt him move down and heard the soft thunk of knees hitting floorboards. His briefs were pulled down to his thighs.

Long slender hands held him firm against the wall, thumbs pressing into the divots of his hip bones. Akaashi almost let out a godforsaken _whine_ at the hot stirring of air over his cock, left to bob untouched against his stomach.

"Tsukishima-kun," he mumbled unsteadily.

"Yes?" Tsukishima asked, and licked a strip up the underside of his dick.

Akaashi automatically bit down on his lip to stifle the messy groan that fell out of him. He only half-succeeded, because he felt Tsukishima _laugh_ , mocking and brief, a vibration that travelled straight into his body.

_Am I going to die_ , flitted through his mind. Shadows gathered thickly over his eyes and blocked out his sight as another hot, wet line laved up the side of him. The combination of sensory deprivation and overload made him think he actually was dying, until Tsukishima’s lips closed around his head and reminded him he was absolutely, unequivocally _alive_.

Akaashi keened, his hands instinctively grabbing at Tsukishima’s hair— and froze when his fingers collided with something—two somethings—hard and ridged, rising out of the top of Tsukishima’s head. They were slightly rough to touch, curving into wickedly sharp points that would easily break his skin if he pressed down. _What_...

“What are you?” A weak whisper, as he stared blindly into the dark and felt, felt, _felt_.

Tsukishima’s hands joined the ministrations of his mouth, one slicking down Akaashi’s shaft and the other slipping between his legs to press on his perineum, eliciting another moan. Akaashi squeezed his eyes shut, tangling his fingers into Tsukishima’s hair out of reflex, those protrusions rubbing the crooks of his fingers. Phosphenes exploded through the black of his closed eyelids; his hips jutted forward within Tsukishima’s grasp.

And Tsukishima _took him_ _deeper_ , the walls of his throat expanding and constricting around him and a groan wrenched through Akaashi’s chest, he was going to come right then and there—

Tsukishima pulled back, exposing Akaashi inch by inch to the open air, and letting him go with an obscene _pop_. “A bit soon, don’t you think?” he murmured against Akaashi’s dick.

“I— hn—?”

Tsukishima rose to his feet and kissed him, precise and devastating. Akaashi tasted himself and then nothing but smoke-sugar, throwing all his senses into tumultuous disorder, disintegrating the odd darkness over his eyes like it had never been there at all. But even then. Even then. 

He could see Tsukishima’s silhouette, and it was one step into impossible. Horns arching from his head. Ears tapering into points. Shadows writhing at his feet like leashed dogs.

Akaashi had never felt hunger this monstrous.

“Show me to your bedroom,” Tsukishima said huskily. He thumbed the head of Akaashi’s cock, none too gently.

“How exactly am I supposed to get there when you’re doing _that_ ,” Akaashi bit out, unsurprised at the mixture of venom and want in his voice. It was damn well justified—how could Tsukishima make demands like that while rendering him incapable of even standing up straight?

Tsukishima stilled. When he took his hand away Akaashi almost hissed in frustration. "Go on, then, Akaashi-san."

The honorific was an obvious taunt. Akaashi bit the bait all too willingly, tugging his underwear back up but kicking his pants off, leaving them discarded on the ground as he made his way down the hall. When shadow curled around his bare leg he almost tripped, recognising the sensation—fuck, it had been Tsukishima all along. Whatever he was.

Whatever he was, _Akaashi wanted him_.

He whirled on Tsukishima, pulling him down into a dizzying, bruising kiss. Again the world melted around him into whispering dark, his awareness a wire Tsukishima was bending to his will.

Their bodies became the architects for his apartment—geometric sections of his home carved out and defined from whatever surface they pressed against. Here, the middle of the corridor, mapped out in his mind by the textured wall at his back and Tsukishima’s lips on his neck. Followed by nothingness and then there was the doorframe of the kitchen, digging into his clenched hand, but the kitchen itself was lost in a dreamlike absence. Pieces. Fractures. He was unravelling again, Tsukishima tugging apart the threads of his being with his fingernails.

And then his bedroom.

Akaashi grabbed the loosened collar of Tsukishima’s shirt and hauled him in, fumbling backward until his legs hit the edge of his bed. Light filtered through the curtains, striping across Tsukishima’s face with unnatural luminosity; it emphasised the chilling line of his pupils, surrounded by burnished gold.

The room was solid and immediate around them, a pocket of certainty amidst the haze of real-not-real. And when Tsukishima took a quarter-step away and slid off his pants, and even slower, his underwear, the slender, cord-like tail that flicked out behind him became another unreality made tangible.

_What are you_ , Akaashi wanted to ask again. He didn’t want to know the answer.

“Suddenly modest?” Tsukishima asked sardonically, so like his attitude from earlier that Akaashi automatically started to retort, but stopped when he felt something that wasn’t a finger hook into the waistband of his briefs. It twisted around the material, tugging at it.

Akaashi’s hands flew to his hips, flinching back when he brushed against a smooth, lithe appendage. Tsukishima looked decidedly smug as he finished toeing off his own underwear from around his ankle.

Mouth dry, Akaashi obeyed the obvious beckoning, his breath stuttering as the arrowhead-shaped tip of Tsukishima’s tail flicked against his knuckles. Dimly he was aware he should be terrified. None of this made sense.

_If I_ were _to die like this—_

The pillows at his headboard were soft under his neck. Tsukishima knelt above him, limbs long and milky white, tail coiling starkly against his flesh, cock long and heavy between his legs. His shirt was splayed open across his torso, revealing the pale jut of hip bones that begged to be scratched red, to be mottled with bruises from a grip too hard.

But Akaashi couldn’t do that, because as soon as he reached to touch Tsukishima, pressure writhed over his wrists and slammed them back onto the bed. His lungs emptied in disbelief.

“Not _yet_ , Akaashi-san.”

He fruitlessly pushed against whatever was restraining him, arms going rigid with tension when Tsukishima reached down, stroking Akaashi—as if he’d grown any less hard. The self-inflicted strain on his muscles only grew worse when Tsukishima reached back with those same dripping fingers, obviously working into himself.

“Say my name again,” Akaashi demanded, chest heaving.

Tsukishima rose and fell on his own hand, his lips creating a beautiful _o_. Did beings like him even _need_ to do something like that, when—

His eyes were glinting down at Akaashi. Sly, watchful, despite the fevered way he ran his tongue between his sharp, pretty teeth.

“Akaashi-san _is_ your name,” he breathed, then gasped quietly, a tremor rippling through him as his fingers found whatever they’d been looking for.

“Not my last name,” Akaashi heard himself growl, sounding utterly wrecked. His arms were screaming where they shoved against indistinct shackles.

Tsukishima quirked an eyebrow, seemingly well aware of how tense he was. He drew his hand back before him and shifted, positioning himself very precisely over Akaashi. The pressure spread over his forearms, more like wide flat cuffs than shackles, as if Tsukishima knew what his reaction was going to be. 

“If you insist,” Tsukishima sank down onto his cock, “ _Keiji_.”

Akaashi’s eyes almost rolled back into his head; he felt like he was falling _upward_ into dark, wet fire. His damn hands couldn’t do _anything_ except claw desperately at thin air. He bucked into Tsukishima, unsettling the pace that was unfurling, throwing off the fluid undulating of hips with base desire. Tsukishima hissed, bracing himself with a hand behind him and another on Akaashi’s waist.

“Tsukishima,” Akaashi panted mindlessly. Tsukishima’s name was the only language that remained, ingrained into the lining of his chest, scrawled underneath his skin.

He hadn’t even— he hadn’t used any— but he was taking Akaashi in so _smoothly_ ; now that he’d regained his balance he had Akaashi well and truly pinned in place, finding a rhythm that was rolling, ceaseless, merciless. Akaashi’s back curved up helplessly, moans tumbling out as Tsukishima engulfed him.

“I,” Tsukishima said, losing his words when Akaashi surged up to meet him again, hitting the spot deep within him. It gave him a vicious kind of satisfaction that he could render Tsukishima speechless like that, like how Tsukishima had been doing to him all night. “And here I was, thinking you’d want it slower,” Tsukishima got out, leaning forward and catching one of Akaashi’s nipples between his fingertips.

The resulting spark rushed down to Akaashi’s dick; he grunted, biting down on his lip so hard he almost broke the skin. Tsukishima did not let up, his hand creeping upward as he rode Akaashi, dragging on him torturously. Pinching lightly against the hollow between his collarbones, smoothing over his Adam’s apple, the web between an index finger and thumb settling over his larynx. Tsukishima trailed his thumb up and down the side of Akaashi’s neck, coming to a stop to tap soundlessly over his vein. Slow, as if counting the seconds.

_Once._

_Twice._

_A third time._

Tsukishima sank his hips down again, and at the same time tightened his hold into a choke. 

That did Akaashi in; his back arched as he came violently, a cry bursting in his chest. He didn’t know how much of it was audible—his vision had gone white and he’d gone boneless, thrown to a high that plucked through every inch of his body. Tsukishima shuddered over him, inhaling deep and sharp as he rode out each spasm.

_Make me, unmake me_ —

Akaashi wasn’t sure how long it took for him to come back to himself. His legs and arms were trembling, heartbeat only just starting to calm down from its horse’s gallop. His blood was still buzzing, especially over his nose and lips, but the shadow-pressure had wisped away from his arms. Sweat soaked his shirt, clinging the cotton to his skin.

Tsukishima had moved off him and was sitting on the side of the bed, his back to Akaashi. He’d removed his shirt; Akaashi could see the bumps of his spine, white skin unmarked—he felt a twinge of annoyance—and his eyes dropped to where Tsukishima’s tail came out at the base of his spine. Dark and long, width about the same as two fingers, it wound around Tsukishima’s narrow, naked waist.

Akaashi reached out unthinkingly, touching where tail met skin. Tsukishima stiffened at the sudden contact. The atmosphere immediately shifted from drifting and dreamlike, focus sparking in like static electricity. He looked back over his shoulder, raking his eyes up and down Akaashi’s prone form; Akaashi felt his dick twitch with renewed interest, even though his limbs were so heavy he wasn’t sure he could even sit up.

“Finally,” Tsukishima said. “I’m far from getting my fill.”

Before Akaashi could ask what that meant, shadows were tilting his head up, cradling his face. Tsukishima turned and bent down to kiss him, his tongue dipping lavisciously into Akaashi’s mouth. Akaashi felt something— _pour_ — into him, like lava that lit up every nerve ending white-hot.

All at once his hardness quickened between his legs, but it was so much more potent than before, as if the blood rushing through his veins was not his own. He pushed himself up with one arm, latching the other around Tsukishima’s neck and dragging him closer, chasing the source of that intoxicating energy. One step closer and he could swallow the sun, the stars, the moon.

Tsukishima slotted his leg between Akaashi’s thighs, their naked skin slicking back up with sweat like it had never cooled in the first place. When their erections rocked together Akaashi broke the kiss, unable to process all the sensations at once. His arm, braced behind him, was shaking.

“Not too much?” Tsukishima asked, smirking. His tail grazed lightly down Akaashi’s outer thigh, just short of dipping below the swell of his ass.

“Shit.” A fragile, broken curse. “ _Shit._ ”

Tsukishima scoffed, smugly; it pierced through Akaashi’s disorientation, cutting a line of stubbornness in its wake. He remembered how he had made Tsukishima cut off mid-sentence. _More_.

He slipped his hand from around Tsukishima’s neck to his hips, positioned his other arm for leverage, and in one single-minded motion rolled them so Tsukishima was the one lying flat on his back. Beautiful, terrifying golden eyes blinked wide in surprise. 

Akaashi’s glasses were teetering on the edge of his nose, so he took them off, tossing them on the bedside table. Since Tsukishima was close, he could still see him clearly, but what was flashing in his mind’s eye was the image of that smooth, unmarked back.

“Turn over,” he whispered hoarsely.

Tsukishima’s gaze narrowed with amusement. But, surprisingly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows without protest, turning onto his hands and knees. Akaashi’s mental picture resolved into the real thing, and... _oh_ , he hadn’t really seen Tsukishima’s ass before, toned and pale and

_clean—_

The hunger roared up in him again, breaking fractures and fault lines into his bones. Take him apart, it clamoured. That damned tail flicked lazily through the air, like a cat’s. _Break, blue-purple, blood._

Tsukishima tilted his head, examining Akaashi over his shoulder. “Go on,” he entreated, alluring, taunting. “Wreck me.”

Akaashi’s thumbs were already spreading him apart, rubbing over the ring of muscle; Tsukishima shivered slightly at that, but Akaashi didn’t want those subtle little tells. _MORE_ , the hunger howled, _MOREMOREMORE_ —

He pushed into tight, searing heat.

Akaashi gasped, red crescents waxing bright and vivid under his thumbnails on the small of Tsukishima’s back. No need to be slow. No need to be gentle. _Wreck me_ ; savage thrusts, clenching fingers, violets blooming in bokeh. He was so lovely it turned Akaashi’s stomach, his beauty a profanity to drown in. It squeezed at Akaashi’s lungs, yanking the breath out of him on a string of thorns.

_Wreck me_ ; he drove in and out, the bed creaking below them, Tsukishima’s limbs shaking now, back arched so his head was lowered but shoulders and ass were up in the air, rocking back. Akaashi leaned in, reaching down to wrap his hand around Tsukishima’s dick, wetness seeping between his fingers as he pumped him. Tsukishima’s arms convulsed and he let out a gasping, shattered moan.

Akaashi could almost taste it.

He did it again on the next thrust and Tsukishima’s arms almost gave way. The swear word he spat out was raw and ugly, clawing into Akaashi’s ears. He felt something snap against his waist and he grabbed at it; Tsukishima’s tail snaked around his forearm, bruisingly tight.

It wouldn’t let go, so Akaashi didn’t either, pulling on this new anchor so he could move in deeper, _deeper_ — Tsukishima hissed out another curse, sheets bunched up in his hands, head almost pressed into the mattress— each brutal thrust matched the rapid thumps of Akaashi’s heart— too much, the heat was _too much_ —

But he couldn’t— he couldn’t—

Akaashi shook, his body on the edge of tipping over but refusing to fall. He wanted to let go, to plummet downward but _why_ —

He suddenly became aware of another kind of tightness, encircling his base. Tsukishima’s body vibrated in a soft, raw laugh when Akaashi stilled.

“Did you honestly think I would just _let_ you come?”

It was the same squeezing he’d felt in the izakaya, in the hallway of his home, on his bed when Tsukishima straddled him and took him in slow. Akaashi shivered again, every fibre of his body screaming for a release that wouldn’t be granted.

“You…” he breathed in frustration.

“I’m not that nice, Keiji.” Even on his hands and knees, his face still lowered to the bedsheets, Tsukishima sounded unspeakably self-satisfied. “Try asking.”

Akaashi was still in disbelief, so Tsukishima rocked against him, surrounding him to the hilt. His back and ass were a gorgeous canvas of dark, smudged colour.

“ _Shi_ —” Akaashi choked out, curling slightly into himself; was it pleasure or pain? “ _Tsukishima_ —”

“Yes?” Tsukishima ground back again, not as fast as before but so deliberate that Akaashi would have lost it had it not been for—

“Please,” spilled out from his lips, small and pathetic. “Nn— fuck _, please_.”

“You can— _ah—_ do better than that.” The supposed condescension was ruined by his moan.

Akaashi bowed his head, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose. He held Tsukishima’s hips like they were a lifeline, the tail still looped tightly around his arm. Tsukishima circled his body just _so_ , and Akaashi almost crumpled.

“Let me come,” he forced out, humiliation and desire warring within him. “ _Kei, please_.”

Tsukishima shuddered when Akaashi said his name, his muscles shifting under his skin in a violent tremor; Akaashi saw white come start to ribbon onto his bedsheets and then heard a choked, “ _Fine_.”

Then the ring vanished from around his cock and Akaashi was seeing stars, release ripping through him to shatter him cell by cell. He might have cried out, he might have created a whole new belt of bruises on Tsukishima’s hips, he _might have might have might have_ but his consciousness was disintegrating into roaring white pleasure—

—and then, nothing.

* * *

Akaashi woke up alone.

It was still dark outside, but the parts of the bed his body wasn’t touching were cold. For a brief moment he was bewildered; his room did not look like his own. Shadows stretched differently, the outline of his belongings were all misshapen by a fraction—then he blinked, inhaled, and it resolved into familiarity.

Too much the same. He sat up with difficulty, his arms alarmingly weak. There was nothing to suggest the presence of another, apart from the mess mottling his sheets. And then he felt the aches imprinted into his body, deep and encompassing, laying claim to his muscles. His tongue and lips were painfully tender. He looked down and saw, in the thin white moonlight, lines of bruising curled around his right forearm.

The traces left behind. The sweetness and the savagery.

Akaashi’s stomach clenched and he realised two things at once: the first, that he was ravenous; the second, that his bladder was about to burst. _Get up_ , he told himself, his body moving sluggish and slow, as if wading through a deep pool. _Up_.

He stood up and had to lean against the bedside table for a while, his legs unsteady beneath him. Why was he so _exhausted_...his brain felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool. He used the bathroom in a daze, bracing himself on the doorframe when he left it. He had to...had to check the time.

The hallway gaped like an empty throat. There was nothing of Tsukishima left in the rest of his apartment, not a single stray scent, nor an article of forgotten clothing. If it weren’t for the dirty sheets, or the bruises and aches dug into his body, Akaashi could have thought it was all a dream. Even now, as he slowly made his way to his discarded coat, he _should_ have disregarded it as a dream. It wasn’t possible for anyone to look as Tsukishima had, to consume as he had. To _be_ as he _was_.

But bits of memory flashed through his mind as he sat on the entryway ledge, dragging his coat into his lap. Those fragments were so shockingly vivid they became almost tangible before him, more real than the solidity of the apartment around him. Nothing about them could be denied. 

His fingers closed around the cold metal of his phone and he drew it out of the coat pocket, clicking the unlock button. He furrowed his brow in confusion—the battery was low, the notification number blinking into double digits—and the time. 12:03 am. The day, Sunday.

12:03 am, Sunday morning.

Sunday morning.

He slumped heavily against the wall, staring at his phone.

* * *

“Akaashi! I’m glad to see you!” A warm hand clasped Akaashi’s shoulder just before he sat down at his desk. “When you didn’t reply to my texts the other day, I got a little worried.”

Akaashi stiffened a little, pasting a polite smile on his face before he turned to Sugawara. “I...I was just tired, Sugawara-san. I’m sorry I didn’t respond sooner.”

“Just as long as you’re alright.” Sugawara peered closer at him.

Akaashi cursed his coworker’s perceptive nature, using taking off his jacket and hanging it on his chair as an excuse to break eye contact. “I’m fine now, but I do appreciate your concern.”

Sugawara relented, giving him space so he could sit down. “Take it easy today, Akaashi. I’ll pick up some of your slack, okay?” Before Akaashi could force up another response he trotted off, back to his desk around the corner.

Akaashi sagged slightly in relief, pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes. He’d had a few messages and a missed call from Sugawara waiting for him when he mustered up the strength to check his phone properly later that Sunday. Just a few checking up on his well being, and a more concerned one when he hadn’t replied. It had still taken him a while to message back, as he’d been struggling to process that he’d somehow missed an entire day.

Honestly, even now he couldn’t quite process it. His mind was still stuck somewhere in a dark Friday night, fixed on horns and teeth and roiling shadows that moved at someone’s bidding. Under the light of day it had almost seemed laughable, but then he’d look at the bruising around his arm and feel a hand at his throat.

Voices came down the rows, bringing him out of his half-dream into the present. Some of his coworkers entered the office, taking busily amongst themselves. And at the back of the group—of _course_ it was him; the apprehension and anticipation had been simmering in Akaashi ever since he stepped out of his apartment that morning broke over his head like a wave. _Was it real? Was it real?_

Tsukishima looked as perfectly put together as always, in a slim-fitting work suit and a reserved, almost blank expression. The rim of his glasses glinted in the light as he turned his head, gaze flicking over the office with an impassive air.

His clothes covered him neck to ankle. Akaashi wondered if his fingers had left their patterns on Tsukishima’s back.

The group drew closer down Akaashi’s row; he tensed up but was unable to look away. He felt a jolt of something, not quite fear, when a golden, human gaze slid toward him. Tsukishima blinked, deliberately slow.

As his eyes opened, Akaashi saw his pupils had become elongated, slitlike.

_His own name whispered into his ear, bitten into flesh, dripped into hot, open-mouthed kisses— hips rolling taking him deeper deeper deeper engulfed drowning gasping—_

Akaashi came back to himself with a violent shiver—the stream of impressions had washed over him in the space between seconds, leaving him dizzy and hard, so _fucking_ hard he was afraid to move.

Tsukishima had already walked past, the chatter of their coworkers surrounding him uninterrupted. Akaashi stared at his hands in his lap. His fingers were trembling.

Nobody else had seen it.

It had been for him.

Only him.

**Author's Note:**

> I was questioning myself the entire time I wrote this bc it was so hard to remove myself from my usual characterisation of Tsukki oh my god. I just don't know. Every time I write I become a ball of stress and uncertainty...
> 
> [Twitter ☽](https://twitter.com/tsukichuus)


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